Call Me Puck
by Puckieg
Summary: Characterization piece from Puck's POV,, because we all want to know what's in a name.


Robin.

I've only ever heard it when I bring about my introductions and once or twice at Court when Oberon calls my name for a favor. It's never alone: my last name always seems to follow. Goodfellow is the completion of the formality of my first name, and sometimes it seems that it simply becomes the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth syllables of my name.

Robin.

I wonder sometimes why people remember it as my name. They recognize me from the Hermia-Lysander-and-friends incident, but I was only ever Puck in the play itself, leaving me to wonder why they made sure to remember that I was listed first as Robin Goodfellow.

Robin.

I remember those syllables on light pink lips now frosted with the kisses of another, those lips that had once talked for hours to me and to me alone. Those lips had laughed, and those lips had trembled, and I had been there for all of it. They were forbidden lips, but they were hers, and she did not care about what was forbidden. Those lips, those beautiful lips, had brought a new sound to my name when she had said it. I had tasted those lips once, and now they are gone. My name is no longer mentioned on those lips. I am only and evermore her friend Puck.

Robin.

I can count on one hand the number of times it has stood alone. It doesn't seem as if those few letters can fully address me, as if I am some entity that requires more explanation or another adjective in order to be recognized as myself. My first name had never seemed enough in others' voices, and perhaps that is why I try to avoid using it; as if someone calling me by that name is bringing me somehow lower from myself because I seem to be so much more. When you push past the grandeur and the glamour, it can be enough. In pushing through the glamour, you see me, and that one simple word will be enough to address this true person that is me, because at my heart, I am not the grandeur.

Robin.

Short and simple. I have always been Puck, the one sharp word that lets me know that you are speaking to me. It's a shortcut to call my attention, nothing more. Robin is my name, and saying it means that you want something more. The use of the name shows that you aren't interested in my shortcut. Robin tells me that there is something more, whether dangerous or deep, and that I need to listen at this very moment.

Robin.

I say it myself sometimes. When your best friend calls you only by your shortcut or your last name, and you begin to wonder why you have the first name anyway, it becomes almost a necessity to say it yourself or have it forgotten. There is a need to remember it because it is who I am. Maybe he doesn't say it because it's not the light word that acts as a snap of the fingers to turn my head, but rather an acknowledgement that I am someone to think about and someone who can think as well. Maybe it's because the formality of Robin Goodfellow is gone, something he's always reverted to when the need to address or introduce me came up. Maybe it's because the casualty of Puck is taken away as I become something that has more of a life to it, something that is very real and not as flippant or easily comical as Puck. My name is Robin, and I can feel oh so very deeply when I let my guard down.

Robin.

I can feel it wear itself out in repetition as the years that come with it pile into the word, as if the meaning is still being devised as the days come and go. This name, this word, has a history behind it, and the history refuses to be ignored when called upon. This name has a sea of emotion behind it that conceals itself behind the stony emerald of my eyes so that it can never be exploited by the people who play the roles of my family. This name has pain and sorrow stained onto it next to the delight, because Robin Goodfellow is something for the Court to play around with. This name has loneliness and tears strewn across it with the happiness and the love, because my love has often been taken from me. That name has too many memories to sort through. There is a level of respect that is required to use that name because of the life it has lived.

Robin.

The name has too much weight to carry. It's a reminder of all that I've lived through and everything I can never get rid of in a bottle of faery wine. It's the inescapable enemy that haunts me because Robin can turn into a monster with frightening ease. Those memories so thickly attached to the regret are dark, and they constantly create fresh regret to fight every single day.

My best friend had called me Puck. Puck was light and caused mischief wherever he went. Puck was too busy thinking of the next joke to feel as deeply as he could've. He made mistakes and let them go, continuing to run and fight and hide under sarcasm and fear of his own wildness. He didn't need to feel. He survived but never lived, and for that, I'm grateful. The cost of living has gone up to giving everything away, and I can never let go of those beautiful lips or his rare but satisfying smile. Puck could see this without seeing the history behind them.

For a while, I had lived as Robbie. A human name, I never had any regrets tied to it. Robbie was only when I didn't need to feel like a faery.

She called me that for years, but the heavy truth came out and I couldn't stop it. She had called me Robin Goodfellow.

I told her, "Call me Puck."


End file.
